Eden Anders: Whitewater Alchemist
by Sly07
Summary: So this is the first ff I've ever written and I've gotten good reviews with it so far. These are the first and second parts of it. If I get good reviews I may one day finish this. No characters from the actual story as of yet but they'll be in the next pr


Part I-Eden:

A crash from downstairs reverberated through the floorboards of my bedroom—the sound of breaking glass. _He_ always starts throwing shit when he gets mad; which is one of the many lesser reasons I hate him. The predominate reason for my hatred, however, stems from the fact that my mother chose _him_ (a bigot, a liar, and a man generally considered to be the world's biggest asshole) over me, her own _daughter_. _He_ is my stepfather; Mr. Raymond 'Rooster' Ballwin. The 'Rooster' part is his self-appropriated nom de guerre, because he supposedly grew up on a farm, or some load of horseshit like that…. Almost everyone calls him 'Rooster,' whether they believe his falsities or not. I don't speak to him, if I can help it; and when I _am_ forced to say something to him (usually by my mother) I just call him Dickhead…at which point my mother sends me to my room 'until you learn to show some respect for your father.' (Actually, that's the reason I'm up in my room tonight.) 'Respect for my father?' That's a laugh! Number one: he's _not_ my father (just some drunken, lying, judgmental _dick_ my mom met at a bar, 9 years ago when I was 6.) Number two: you have to give respect to get it, and that man hardly respects himself, much less anyone else…me, least of all. I mean, most of the time he's perfectly contented to simply pretend that I don't exist (which is fine by me) that is, _until_ something goes wrong; then it's 'all that damned little half-breed freak-show's fault!' Yeah…_I'm_ the one who need to show some respect. Anyway, that's one of the nicer things he calls me. My name's actually Eden…Eden Anders. (Mom's maiden name…I don't even know my _real _father's first name, let alone his last; and neither Dickhead, nor I, would stand for sharing _his_ last name, just because he married my mother.) I'm not even sure Dickhead _knows_ my true name…not that I care. Now that I've told you why I detest 'Rooster' Ballwin to the highest degree, let me explain why he can't stand me. Well, like I said: he's a bigot. I mean, he absolutely abhors anyone or anything different than he is; and we're as different as two people can be…. He lies about _everything_…and I make it a habit to tell the truth, no matter what the cost (to myself, or to anyone else.) I believe in the science of alchemy, and its ability to better people's lives…Dickhead says alchemy is only for ignorant fools, and warmongers. My mother loves _him_ unconditionally (although I have no idea why)…she loves me, as long as she can keep me under her thumb (which won't be for much longer, so you do the math.) The last, and most prominent, reason my stepfather hates me is this: I'm half-Ishbalan…. He believes that the Ishbalan's were religious fanatics who deserved to be wiped off the map to begin with (he also says that's the one favor the military ever did Amestris) and I guess I serve as a constant reminder to him that the entire race was not _completely_ eradicated. The whole thing is really unfair; it's not like I _chose_ to be part Ishbalan (my mother chose that for me…when she shacked-up with some guy…only for the sake of 'forbidden love.') Besides, the only similarities I have with my Ishbalan sire (aside from the blood that flows through my veins) are my skin tone, and my eye color. Actually, my skin's a little lighter than your average Ishbalan's (I can pass for any old Amestranian with a good tan, most of the time…especially since my hair is mousy-colored, like mom's) but my eyes are a dead-giveaway…. I mean, they are _red_, after all (which is why you will never see me without my trademark blue-mirrored sunglasses.) Anyway, to get back to the point at hand…there you have it: all of the reasons I'm not good enough to be Mr. Ballwin's daughter. (those, plus the fact that he's afraid of me…as I'm one of the few people who can see through his façade of bullshit…and even if I couldn't, he'd still be afraid that I'd haul off and kick his ass with my alchemy one day.) About my alchemy: I guess it's pretty good (I take the cake when it comes to manipulating water) but I _know_ there're better alchemists than I am (for now, at least) out there…. Like that Fullmetal kid I heard about; who became a State Alchemist at the age of 12—a real hero of the people, too. I want to be like that (a hero, I mean…not some goon of a soldier.) But, right now I have to hide out in the field behind the family shop to even read my alchemy books… I'll never get _anywhere _with Dickhead calling the shots, and my mother always backing him up. It's raining outside; at times like this, I just enjoy sitting here, looking out my window, and watching the river as it flows behind the shop, practically in our back yard…watch as each tiny droplet of water falling from the sky, kisses the glistening surface, and then disperses back into the depths from whence it came, to once more rejoin the whole. (It's a really brilliant analogy for how the universe works, if you think about it…. Mother Nature is quite an innovative teacher.) "I don't want her here!" 'Rooster's' voice cuts sharply through my thoughts. "She's our daughter!" My mother's voice this time; pleading, but without much conviction…as though it were only a perfunctory act to defend her child. "She's not _my_ daughter!" Dickhead again…getting louder now. "You're right…of course." Mom's meek answer is enough to make my stomach turn. "I'll see if my Aunt Suzanne would be willing to take her for awhile." Well, there it is: I'm not wanted here…I don't _want_ to be here…and I'll be _damned_ if I'm going to stay with that hag, Suzanne (she's almost worse than Dickhead, in some ways…_almost_.) I'm getting out of here…_tonight_. I don't know where I'll go, but anywhere has to be better than this. My bags are already packed (I keep them that way in preparation for times like tonight.) Grabbing my suitcase, I sneak out of my room, down the steps, and slip silently out the back door…. In all their planning to get rid of me, they didn't even hear me escape…how ironic.

Part II-Escape:

As I walk down the street in front of the shop, I'm careful to duck past the large bay window adorning the front of the building (although, they're probably still too busy arranging my eminent departure to notice anything.) When I reach the end of the lane, I can't help but to stop and marvel at the range of mixed emotions teeming through my mind. There's anger…obviously; frustration…as much directed towards myself, as at the whole dammed situation, actually; at least a small degree of apprehension…this _is_ my first time running away from home, after all; elation…as strange as it may sound, I'm happy to finally be free of the things I feel, scratch that, I _know_ have been holding me back. Also, despite every extenuating circumstance, I can't help but feel just the smallest twinge of remorse…as silly as it is, I'm sorry that it had to come down to this…yes, I feel some remorse, but _no_ regret, whatsoever. (There's no doubt in my mind that it _did_ have to come down to this…it was inevitable.) All of these feelings are to be expected when one is faced with any life-altering decision, I guess…but aside from all of this, I also feel a pang or two of pity, not for myself (self-pity gets you absolutely _nowhere_) but for my mother…. Despite her many shortcomings as a parent, she _is_ still my mother and because of that, I feel sorry for all the hardships and mistakes that have come her way (the most notable being, no doubt, her union to that pathetic excuse for a human being, Dickhead.) Speaking of Dickhead, it may sound incongruous, but I even pity _him_…undeserving as he, most certainly, is…. It can't be helped, really…when you see someone so erroneous, and ignorant of the way the world _truly_ works, someone so set in their own self-absorbed absurdities that they wouldn't change no matter what (_couldn't _change, even if they wanted to), you can't help but to pity the sheer desperateness of their condition…whether it's their own fault, or not (_especially_ if it's their own fault.) I stand there a moment longer, staring back in the direction I came from, the sign posted in front of the shop squeaking in the wind, and mocking me with 'Rooster' Ballwin's pathetic attempt at a satirical greeting: 'Rooster's Market: Only a dumb-_cluck_ would go anywhere else for their grocery needs.' The truth is, only a 'dumb-cluck' would go within a ten-mile radius of that place for their needs…grocery or any other. (And besides…roosters don't _cluck_, so the pun is lost.) As I turn around and begin walking again, a derisive chuckle, coming from the front porch of the shop, greets my ears. This is followed by a voice with just the right amount of drawl to affect a 'country boy' sounding accent. "And just where the hell you think you're goin'?" Slowly, I turn to face the subject of all my deepest hatred…. There stands Dickhead in all of his asinine, self-assured smugness. I flash him a look that can't even come close to conveying my loathing and respond. "Why the fuck does it matter to you?" "Oh don't get me wrong, missy; it don't matter none to me where you _plan_ on goin'…I just wanna know what could _possibly_ have been going through that thick head of yours, just up and leavin' like that." Dickhead's smirk is bigger than any I've ever seen grace his features before…he's enjoying this…like a little snitch who's caught another child with his hand in the cookie jar. I stand silently, staring back into his malevolent glare…not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. Another chuckle from Dickhead. "I mean…you _are_ dumb…. How could you not be…lil' muddle-minded half-breed, that you are…? But did you honestly _think_ I wouldn't notice that you were gone…? Hell, I mean it actually smelled pretty damn good in there, for a minute…that alone made me wonder where you'd gotten off too…you smelly lil' Ishbalan brat." I'm breathing quicker now, and I have to clench my fists to keep my hands from shaking. I've got to settle down…. This is what he wants…to get me mad, defensive…to make go after him first. I won't do that…I won't give him a reason to take a swing at me…. Not that he would really need a reason…_unless_ some police officer or someone of that nature got curious as to why he beat a child within an inch of her life…then he'd want to be able to claim self-defense (an argument that would have many flaws, that Dickhead is either too stupid, or too pigheaded to see…not the least of which is that I'm 100 pounds lighter, and 25 years younger than he is.) None of that matters, though…I won't let myself get angry enough to attack him…therefore that chicken-shit won't touch me. I take a deep, steadying breath before I answer Dickhead. "_Again_, why the fuck do you care…? You wanted me gone anyway…I heard you talking…. This is easier for everyone." Dickhead shakes his head slowly, chuckling to himself…his expression is enough to answer my question…. He wants me gone, but on _his_ terms, where _he_ says…it's just another ploy to dictate my freedom (_and_ my life.) "Boy…you _are_ stupid…. Where you gonna' go, hmm…? Ain't no one out there who wants you…. Hell, we had to practically _bribe_ Suzanne to take your mutant ass." Screw this, I'm not going to stand here and be insulted (especially by someone like him.) I turn the corner and start walking brusquely down the next street. "Don't you walk away from me, mutt…! Hey…I'm speaking to you, you lil' bitch!!" Dickhead's tirade of curses follows behind me…much like a well-trained dog follows its' master. I walk on, my stride full, my pace steady, glad for the rain camouflaging my angry tears, as they slide down my cheeks. I'm cold…I cinch the strings in the side of my jacket, pulling the fabric tighter across my body. Suddenly, the crisp air is alive with a choking, sputtering sound that has become all too familiar to me over the years…Dickhead's ancient truck, coughing and wheezing awake to make what could always be its last journey. Without hesitation, I begin to run as fast as my legs will carry me. I have to get off the road…it might not matter much in the long run, but I'll have a better chance of getting away, if I make Dickhead chase me a little while. (Besides, it'll really piss him off to waste so much of his precious time going after me.) I veer off to the right…into part of the vast field that encompasses the shop and the surrounding buildings. Without even thinking about it, I double back. Now running the direction I've just come from, I head for the river…. I have an idea that Dickhead won't think to look for me anywhere _near_ the shop…and even if he does, the odds will be greatly intensified in my favor with the river to give me some protection. I'm almost there; I can hear the babbling of the water as it flows nonchalantly past any and all traces of civilization to eventually empty into the vastness of some unmarked ocean. The rain is picking up some now, and I slow down ever so slightly, as thunder rumbles off in the distance, and lightning flashes across the sky. Looking over my shoulder to make sure there is nothing but open field behind me, I reach the banks of the river and stop…my hands on my knees, panting. Just as I straighten up, I hear the stuttering roar of Dickhead's engine, and spin around to see his truck racing (if you can call its top speed of 30 or so miles an hour racing) across the field to where I stand. In the driver's seat, Dickhead looks livid…almost insane with rage…and, much to my horror (yet not surprisingly) my mother sits in the passenger seat…coaxing him off and on, but otherwise seeming quite uninterested and bored with the whole ordeal. As the truck gets closer, I feel a dawning terror…I've got nowhere else to run to, I'm cornered…and I'm out of options. Instinctively, I back away as far as I can, my feet slipping on the silt-lined banks of the river, the water lapping at my ankles, sending chills up my legs. Just as I'm about to give up hope…with Dickhead's truck barely five feet in front of me, and still closing in…I'm struck with an idea. (Am I an alchemist, or not?) It's obviously too wet out here to draw a transmutation circle with chalk…but, there's more than one way to skin a cat, as they say…. I grab hold of one of the dead branches jutting out of the water, and after some prying, manage to successfully break one of the attached twigs free…. It isn't a moment too soon…just then Dickhead gets out of the truck and starts running toward me his hands outstretched. (I really think he plans to strangle me.) Staring terrified at 'Rooster' Ballwin's strong hands as they reach for my exposed throat, I plant the twig in my hand in the firmest patch of mud I can find, and begin to scratch out the array that will allow me to alter the river's flow…and hopefully save me from Dickhead's wrath. Just as Dickhead's hands zone in on my throat, I duck down and place both of _my_ hands on the edge of the circle I've just drawn…concentrating with all my might on the river, and the power it harnesses. Dickhead's hands grasp the thin air, where my neck had been not a minute before…. He stumbles, and just before he goes floundering into the river, there is a flash of light to rival the lightning in the stormy sky, from underneath my hands…followed by an almighty crashing sound, as the raging waters of the river gather together to form a 50-foot pinnacle. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around one of the huge branches protruding from the riverbank, and hold on as tight as I can…praying that it's enough. 'Rooster' lets out a hoarse shriek and topples backwards into the mud, in his hurry to get away…just as the huge wave comes crashing down…disabling the ancient truck, and sending its driver washing several feet into the dense field. My mother lets out a terrified scream. (_Now_ she screams…where was that scream when 'Rooster' was trying to kill me?) As Dickhead picks himself up off the ground, cursing and spluttering…I set to work redrawing my circle…just to be sure. Sopping wet and shivering, I place my hands, once more, on the slimy mud of my circle. Another flash…and this time the river's current begins to increase carrying the water downstream at an almost frightening pace…the undertow pulling anything unlucky enough to enter down to the deepest depths of the icy water…. Good…that was my plan. I look one last time into the wide and terrified eyes of my mother (cloudy through the truck's mud-splattered windshield) and into the still-livid face of 'Rooster' Ballwin, who now, looks more comical than anything, standing completely befuddled, wet, and mud-streaked, in the middle of an open field in the pouring rain…and then, I close my eyes, taking care to remove my sunglasses and tuck them carefully into the inside pocket of my jacket, take a deep breath (I'm vaguely aware of my mother's startled scream…but it seems distant…like it doesn't even matter anymore)…and jump into the rampant waters, letting the icy chill penetrate every fiber of my being…becoming one with the river, and flowing away from my troubles as all my pain and trepidations are pulled under by the strong currents.


End file.
